belgian

A few years ago I was in Spain, I’d missed my flight out of Madrid because of an ill-timed visit to the Prado, some churros, and a bullfighting poster and I was stuck for an indefinite amount of time. I wanted some comfort food.

I wanted something familiar to help me deal with the fact that I was stuck half way across the world, dealing with an airline that was refusing to help, and all the budget hotels and hostels were sold out for the night. So I went to McDonald’s.

I was in one of the most culinary rich countries in the world and I went right past all those great markets and family run cafes right to the American capital of sub-mediocre food to order a milkshake and some french fries.

And it worked. It was bland, and salty and creamy and reminded me of my processed food childhood and made me feel like everything was going to be OK. I’m not proud of myself, I could have had cured meats and cheese and fresh bread.